FateGuard

[Asmodeus]

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Finn was hiding behind a blanket now, his skin pale. "That
story was creepy - I don't like it."

"The FateGuard faced many terrors in their time," the
Grandmother answered, turning over the page. Firelight
shone on the drawing of a hillside, where a diabolical,
twisted cross was mounted. The children could just make
out the sketch of Ferrick the Werewolf circling it, chased
by witches.

"Did Derek go after Arcanium? The mage who killed his
parents?" Helga asked.

"And did they find Kael?" Finn called from under the
blanket.

"That's for another story, dears. The Wounded Hand would
be enemies with the FateGuard for a very long time. Their paths would cross on many adventures."

"I didn't want the Twins to die!" Finn started sobbing and Helga had to put her arm around him. The two
children snuggled up at the leg of their grandmother's chair, and with a wrinkled hand she ruffled their
hair.

"I know, child." Her own eyes became sad with memories. "We lost many good friends along the way.
Those were hard times, back then. But the FateGuard fought so we wouldn't have to. That's why your
parents go to the Vigil each year - to thank their spirits. To honour their sacrifices."

Helga hugged her brother until he dried his tears. The fire crackled and the wind made whistle-chorus
in the night. It was a few moments before the grandmother smiled and turned to the next page of the
book. "Now..." she said. "...who wants to know what Malwin was up to all this time?"

The children looked up, then at each other. "MALWIN?"
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​

 

[Asmodeus]

FateGuard
Night Five: The Sleeping Sepulchre

Episode Theme

​

Helm Street had seen better days. And would not see them again.

Ginley's, a farrier stable built at the south end of the lane, was once a thriving yard where the sound of smith hammers and hooves made melody. It had been hit in the dragon attack, the roadside wall all but demolished. Three of the stables had collapsed and the horses within been torn apart. They were still finding pieces of flesh in the rafters and a stain in the circling yard - blood and dragon's breath - had refused to wash away.

Further down, a wooden hovel squatted at the crossroads of an alley. The old man inside still raved of werewolves. He said he had seen one in the alleys - that it had attacked him and fled only in the presence of lamplight. He said the FateGuard had come, but had not caught the beast - that it was still out there, roaming the streets, hunting. Every night the man would light torches and candles, a warding circle around his home, and loose his dog on any who came calling.

Next down was the grain store, a stone building taller than the rest. From a brass winch at the upper window, once used for hauling sacks of animal feed, a thin piece of rope remained. The rest had been cut by the constables when they took the gypsy down. A member of the players' troupe, the poor man had been stoned by a mob and strung up by the neck. He was one of many. After the attempt on the king's life, two nights back, no gypsy or street performer was safe to walk alone.

And finally, at the end of Helm Street, were three houses unlike the others. Their east-facing windows had been boarded up, great planks of wood nailed across the glass and daubed with holy symbols in calf-blood and blue ochre. The owners had heard the king's decree - that none should look east at first light lest the Watching Monolith stole your soul - but had taken it as gospel in their daily lives. They would never look east again, and chide their children to keep their gazes lowered.

Helm Street was just one of hundreds. A street like any other in tormented Gotheheim.

But it had one thing unique to it...

There was a cobblers, between Ginley's and the grain store, where an old man once lived. He once had a son who helped him mend shoes for coin. And one day, when going to the yard to hang his clothes... that boy was swallowed whole when the ground opened up...

And as the sun rose over Gothenheim and called a new day to order, this particular mystery was about to be solved.

 

[Delnoir]

Derek didn't sleep the previous night. Aloysius' words still haunted him.

"That which instructs the Wounded Hand. That which empowers the Prophet Arcanium."​

"Empowers." Present tense. Arkham Stillwater was alive. When he had returned the previous night Annette had already gone to sleep. Derek sat down at the table without even removing his armor and sat there all night. Had Alyss come to stay at his house like they agreed? Derek's train of thought was finally shattered when he heard his sister's voice, "Derek? Has the FateGuard been cleared?"

"Yes..."

"Then why do you look so...grim?

"Elayna, Sayra, Kael, Lilith, and Aloysius are traitors. All but Kael are dead. Elayna, Sayra, and Lilith are dead by our hands. Aloysius killed himself after he realized he'd gone too far. Sayra killed Aiden and Nadia," Derek didn't move a muscle as he spoke. Ann sat in the chair opposite of him.

"I'm sorry, Derek. Is there anything I can do for you all?" Derek stood up and walked toward Ann's room.

"You've done all you can by waking up," Derek entered his sisters room and opened the closet. In the corner was Gae Bolg and on the mannequin was the Tempest Garb. The armor that tormented his sister with visions of Arcanium whenever she'd touch it. He reached his hand for the shoulder of the mannequin and Ann's hand grabbed his wrist.

"Derek what are you doing? You know what that thing does when I touch it," Derek shook his sister's hand off of his wrist.

"Let go Ann. I need to do this..." Derek gripped the shoulder of the Tempest Garb and shut his eyes.


***************

14 Years Ago

Zachary Vermilion grunted as he staggered to his feet through the wood and bricks that fell on him when he impacted into the wall. Without the Regalia he'd have been crushed. When he looked up he saw a fireball narrowly miss Eric's head and a young Corben frantically move away from the wall that was rapidly being encased in a thick lair of ice. The rest of the FateGuard pressed the attack when possible but the barriers raised by his opponent deflected them with little effort. Arcane energies beyond anything they had ever seen pulsated throughout the area. The source...

"Hahahahaha!!! Oh you certainly are persistent, I must admit! But as powerful as powerful as you are--" Arcanium laughed delightedly as a blast of arcane energy scattered the FateGuard about the surrounding area. A part of Gothenheim long since abandoned since a group of wraiths had attacked it, "--you cannot comprehend the power I have attained! I am Gothenheim's messiah! She has enlightened me! I shall show the people that the power of the wall isn't something to be feared! That it is something to be embraced! To be used! That the monsters sent are to cull the weak from the strong and decide who is worthy!"

"I've about had enough of listening to you run your goddamn mouth!" a flash of red streaked across the battlefield. Arcanium raised his barriers that not even the strength of Alondite could not destroy only for them to be pierced and shattered by the blood red lance who's tip slammed through them. Allison Vermilion quickly swung Gae Bolg in a wide arc aiming for Arcanium's head only for him to emit a bright light and blind her. When the light faded he was gone. His voice echoed through the area.

"What I want is the same as you. I wish for Gothenheim's well being, but you fear that which you do not understand. I shall give you time to ponder this through the false comfort of daylight. But do not mistake my benevolence for mercy. If you continue to oppose me, I will destroy you all!" the echoing power of his voice faded as Zachary walked over to his beloved.

"He's insane. The wall has warped him beyond reason. He's just another monster now. Only difference is he can speak the words of a man," Zachary shook his head and looked to the other FateGuard as they dusted themselves off most everyone in some state of injury.

"It's more that that, Allison. He's powerful. He violated the rules of magic like nothing. He didn't need any components or concentration. The Mage's Guild could only dream of magic like that. If we weren't together I doubt he'd have any trouble crushing any one of us in a single battle. He has no body either. He won't tire, sleep, or eat because he doesn't need to. And that...armor around him. I've never seen anything like it."

"He fought us somewhere isolated too. Either he didn't want any of the townspeople to be hurt or he doesn't want the mages, church, and crown snooping around," as Allison spoke the memory began to waver and fade. Zachary nodded.

"I agree...it's for the best though. This...Arcanium...is going to kill someone if we're not careful. I'm sure next time we fight him he won't be toying with us anymore..."

***************

Derek removed his hand from the Tempest Garb. Now that he looked closely at the memory of Arcanium he realized the stone fragments that floated around his body were likely shards of the Monolith and the strange symbol on the center piece was likely a proxy eye. Remembering the stories whispered in the following years Derek knew that Arcanium grew to hate the FateGuard. Certain of his own superiority over them he grew spiteful began tormenting them however he could think of. He grew more and more deranged and finally decided the FateGuard were to be destroyed. The battles with Arcanium were brutal and required the combined efforts of the FateGuard to force him back and even then he left them battered and bruised night after night. No doubt he would hold the same smug superiority and messiah complex. Derek didn't say anything to Ann as he left the house. He arrived at the mage's guild and met with the Archmage as quickly as he could. He had to know. The Mage's Guild had investigated the site of Arcanium's supposed death. They would recognize the magic...

"Archmage. Have you finished your examination of the assassins' corpses? The magic used...is it Arcanium?"

 

[Asmodeus]

His first thought was burglary.

He arrived to find his tools missing, the lock-chests vanished from beneath the table. Even the anvil and slack tub had been taken. The weapons rack was empty and only scraps of sheathing leather remained. Corben's footsteps echoed hollow on the floorboards as he moved from the workshop into his house. The furniture was gone, only the most flea-bitten rugs left, and the wall hangings removed. Some slats from the wall had been prized away so items could be carried out easier. Dust hung in the air, as if only recently disturbed, and in the centre of the barren living space a cloaked figure stood.

Corben slipped behind him and put a blade to his throat. "Who are you?"

The boy would always remember this as the day his voice broke. "M..message for you, S-Sir!"

* * * * * * *​

"Well met, my love." Amadea put down a china vase and crossed the rug-strewn floor to plant a kiss on her husband's cheek. She smelt of perfume and soap. Her hand brushed his shoulder and she moved past him, directing two servants where to put the chez longue.

Corben nodded to the messenger boy, dismissing him from his errand, then stepped through the doorway. The lounge was exquisite, lit by candelabra and hung with finest silks and furs. A marble floor held his reflection - the scowl upon his brow. "This is Fasen Hall..."

"Most astute, my dear," Amadea opened a chest of linens and began unpacking them. "Your forge has been set up in the courtyard. I had to hire four whole wagons to move it all."

"This is Elayna's house!"

The outburst made the servants pause. Amadea sighed then nodded to them to leave the room. Furniture was left, half-travelled, as they gave the couple space and Corben's wife shut the door before turning to him. "I doubt she'll be needing it."

"You took her house?" Corben waved his arms around the cavernous room. "What need have we for this luxury?"

"You are the Marshall of the FateGuard," Amadea explained, circling between the cushioned chairs and marble busts. "The Hand of the King, by any other name. And you must have quarters befitting your station."

"My station?! I am a blacksmith, Amadea! A common man, a volunteer!"

"The king does not share your modesty."

This made Corben pause. He watched his wife as she hung a picture frame. "What did you say to him?" Memories flashed - of he and Amadea together, over the king's bed as he fought the poison, as he confessed the bargain struck with the Wounded Hand. "Did you blackmail the king?"

The woman turned from the wall, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Such treasonous accusations, my love." She looked hurt. "I merely asked the king that we be housed closer to the castle, for his protection in these troubled times."

He paced the room, through the light shafts of arched and patterned windows. "Why not Jenra, or Sayra's parents, the Defells, or the mid-mother Laula? Why not give them this house?"

"Because they are the family of traitors."

Corben spun, his arm lashing out. The china vase flew across the room and shattered on the wall. The sound echoed in the high chamber, and the murmurs of the servants outside went deadly quiet. Corben and Amadea held each other's stares, the debris between them. "No!" the Marshall shouted. "They were innocent! ALL OF THEM! They were possessed against their wills! They suffered tragedy!"

The shout took the air from him. He collapsed on one of the sofas, head in his hands. Silence followed.

"You wear too thick a mantle, my love," her honeyed words crept out to him. "It is not your part to mourn them. They have kith and kin for such matters. You are an officer of government, and must be mindful of our politics. The king is beseiged. He wants only to march against the Outside, while his Bishop manipulates the people and his High Mage grasps for forbidden knowledge. And all along the courtiers whisper that his child was conceived by witchcraft. It is a house of cards, Corben - theatre, a circus. And we must play the game if we are to survive."

There was another breath, but this time it was amused. Corben looked up at her, half-tearful, half-smiling. "For a moment, when I passed out in the king's chamber, I suspected you. I thought you were in league with the Wounded Hand. But now I know... you would never look beyond the walls... for you covet too much of what's inside them."

She crossed towards him, slowly, her silver dress as glimmering as the jewels, her fragrance as heavy as the fresh-cut flowers. She stood over him. "I only want to serve you." Her fingers ran through his hair. "These people are fools. Courtiers, mages, clerics - all fools." Her knees came up, either side of his thighs. She straddled him on the sofa, pushing him back. "It is you, Corben... more than any sage or soldier... more than any king... who knows what is best for this city." Her bosom and thighs pressed against him. She cradled his face. "I. Must. Protect. You."

Their lips met. Her scent drowned him. All in this place was soft and sensuous, and he felt himself sinking into the feathered cushions.

Then the doors flew open and Clara, his daughter, came rushing in with another messenger. The girl's face was exuberant, her red hair long and unkempt. She dropped her bags and ran around the room, leaping and dancing. "This is wondrous!" She spun and giggled. "We have ALL of this now?"

Amadea chuckled and climbed off her husband, moving to stroke her child's hair. Mother and daughter embraced. "Do you like it, Clara?"

"I love it! Do we get to live here, Father?! Do we?"

They stopped spinning, Clara looking hopefully at Corben, Amadea behind her, hands on her shoulders. Both women stared, expectantly, awaiting his answer.

And Amadea already knew what it would be.

Corben stood, slowly, sighed, and looked around the plush chamber before his eyes lowered. "Yes, Clara..." his voice sounded hollow. "This is your new home."

 

[Harma]

Harrell's entire body ached.

Every morning was like this; wake up, hurt, wake up, hurt, and every morning all it did was get worse. He did not rise for the first couple minutes, but then he remembered the damned oath he had sworn all those years ago. To Gothenheim I pledge my strength, blah, blah, blah Sometimes he wished he had never sworn that oath. If it wasn't for the damned thing he would be dead by now, and would've never laid hands on the Runes of Sadentar.

Should've killed the whore when I had the chance.

When he rose, pain arched up his spine, and for a moment Harrell thought he might fall face first onto the wooden floor of his room. But he managed to keep his balance, just barely. The second challenge was to get downstairs.

Damn all the stairs in the city to bloody hell.

**** **** ****

When he finally got down, Daven was not there. Harrell frowned; that was unusual, his son never left without at least eating with him first. A note was left on the supper table, nothing else. The sun had just started to rise, he noticed. Harrell walked over to the table and picked up the note.

Went early to the stall. Meet me at the square.

Daven


Harrell set the note down and left his house, still aching. When he got to the Market Square, it wasn't busy at all; men and women just beginning to set up their carts and stalls for the long day ahead. He spotted Daven, arguing at his vegetable stall with a squat, stubborn, bent over, grey little man. As Harrell approached the cart, the squat old man glared at him, and walked away without another word.

Harrell reached for a carrot but stopped, remembering what Castanamir had said the other night. He scowled and spit, reaching for a radish instead.

Daven eyed him, and smirk on his face. "I shouldn't let you do that, old man. It ain't fair to the customers."

"And 'ain't' isn't a word. You should go to the Town Library and actually read for once, instead of pretending to with the only book in the house." He took a bite of the radish... and immediately spit it out, disgusted. "Where the bloody hell did you get these at, the poisoner's?"

Daven laughed. "No, i just bought them off a nice old woman. Well, I got them for free, but I still think that should count as a purchase."

"What was the old saying your mother used to repeat all the time? 'Never take food from strangers'?" He chuckled. I suppose I should get to the Chapter House. Marshall Corben will want me to polish his armor, Alexander his sword.

He hugged his son goodbye, not caring if he was embarrassed, and headed for the Chapter House.

 

[Zen]

Insomnia was his companion that night when Atlas returned home. The hearth was cold and filled to the brim with ashes, vials and books littered his work table, along with a stale loaf of bread - his home was as he had left it before. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the scribbled words of his research, left there when the Marshall summoned them. The book's pages were filled but it lay open on the first couple of pages. It reads,

"For at least a century Gothenheim and its citizens have lived alongside a most evil curse. I, Atlas Winston, Lead Magical Researcher of the Fateguard leave in this book my findings for any future researcher who wishes to rid us of this curse. I impart to you my knowledge, my devotion and my blessings."

Looking up the mage was reminded yet again that the hole in his second story was still there, a token of his battle with the dragon. His heavily bandaged chest was bothering him once more, but he couldn't procrastinate this chore any longer.

As the man hammered away - he found several planks of wood out back and tools in his cabinet - his neighbors' voices filled the room. At first Atlas thought they were complaining about the racket he was making but as he listened further, he learned that this wasn't the case. He was still half crouched, hammer held aloft.

"He's not getting any better Matthias," said a woman's frantic voice. "I've tucked him into bed, but he still coughs and shivers."

A man's voice strong and experienced rang out like a bell. Atlas pictured him as a lone rock taking the onslaught of the ocean alone. "We'll take him to the healer tomorrow Matilda. I'm sure it is nothing but the common cold. Until then, you must stop worrying."

"He's our son, have I not a right to fret?"

"Indeed you do, but worrying will not make him better. In fact it may worsen his condition. The lad's already worried about himself, and now he'll worry about what ill has befallen his mother. What if he believes that it is his doing?"

She was silent for all but a second. "Nonsense. He knows that I worry because he is ill."

"But as a child he is sensitive and picks up on our emotions. Worrying will not make his sickness go away."

"... I suppose you're right."

The man seized his opportunity. "Good. Now, come to bed. Fire's about to go out, I'd hate for you to catch whatever it is our son has."

As the couple settled under their covers, no doubt with their arms wrapped around one another, Atlas lowered his hammer, then suddenly struck a nail into a wooden plank and continued striking until it was embedded deep into the wood. For five minutes Atlas persisted in this manner with every nail until his anger and self pity dissipated. Leaning back he acknowledged his work: the hole was gone, but the planks were crooked and he had no doubt that he would trip on a poking nail at some point in the near future. Or step on one.

"Blast it, I'll fix it tomorrow."

He hauled himself into bed, sprawling out on the hay mattress. Sleep came in the form of a potion.

In the morning when the city was bustling with gossip, business and worry, Atlas hurried himself towards the local pub and drowned himself with whiskey and rum.

 

[Hydronine]

Alyss had gone to Derek's house, but was afraid to come down- it seemed like every growing minute, she was dealing with another problem.

Her skin was not cold, it was frozen with a thick layer of ice now. Her eyes were the color of glaciers, and everything... moved fine, and she felt fine- but when she looked to the mirror, she grew fearful. With concentration, she was able to thaw the ice for a couple of minutes- but the second she was distracted by the slightest thing, it came rushing back.

This wasn't what she wanted in the least...

Malwin- she hadn't seen him in ages, and she wouldn't want to right now- not like this... Derek either... or what of the others?

She rubbed at her face again and looked at the mirror. She had to figure out a way to get this under control again- but she knew the amulet was only a bandage to hide a festering problem.

Finally she shrouded herself in a cloak, drawing the hood around her face and Alyss slowly made her way down the stairs, checking to see if anyne elsewas home, and spotted Anne. She paused for a moment, then bolted, running out the door.

She thought back for a moment to one of the meetings she had with Malwin, when her fear had been unfounded yet- where her fears about her future were more likened to paranoia. She remembered telling him that she feared what she might become- that she only wanted to as human as she could be and that if she ever became what she feared- that she wanted to disappear- killed or merely exiled... did he hear her plea? If he found her, would he take action?... and in her appearance at the moment, she found herself entirely monstrous, and yet, in every other way, she felt like herself.

Alyss kept her hood down as she ran, frantic.

"Who can I go to to possibly fix this?" She asked herself quietly. "If it can't be fixed..." She trailed off, uncertain. "I need to find Malwin.... I need.... Maybe Ulric can do something..." Her voice trembled, and she found herself on route to Ulric's and changed her mind... no, that wouldn't work...

Alyss made her way back to the chapter house, heading for the library- she had never found anything on her condition in there before... maybe she had missed something... there had to be some way to fix this.

 

[Kitti]

The night had been a long one, full of twists and turns along the path, but those who had survived were not triumphant for their existence. Rather, there seemed to be a burden of sorrow weighing heavily on each of them and they bore their pain individually. Many of them would likely not breathe a word of their loss to those near them, for lack of desire to trouble those simple hearts who did not feel the pressure of imperfection and discord so poignantly. Others still, to be certain, would share their troubles with those closest to them, seeking solace. When Erilyn considered the latter statement, images of Derek holding tightly to his sister's hand came to mind and she suppressed a laugh, which had risen unexpectedly to her throat.

For her part, Erilyn had gathered her shield, which had been unused the last night and was in no need of fresh polishing, from the chapter house before heading back to her home with leaden feet and an ache through her entire body that felt as if it might never leave her. With adrenaline and purpose, her muscles had reacted well enough to strike a blow against Elayna but not so swiftly as to avoid a counterstrike, a wound that only intensified the throbbing pain of the muscles in her arms, strained from gripping to the trapdoor and holding her own weight as she'd lashed out against Sayra. Now, bandaged, she was still moving slowly without the aid of adrenaline. She wanted little more than to eat an entire roast dragon haunch and sleep for several days.

Trudging through the door looking worse for her wear, she was greeted by a booming noise, one that assured her she would have no chance of ignoring it and going straight to sleep. The voice of her brother caught her ears at once, though she could not fully distinguish the words from the other room. All the same, he sounded less than pleased. Erilyn sighed and swayed a little, opting to pull out a chair and seat herself before her body gave in to the bone aching tiredness and let her fall to the ground. Her voice could not be kept from taking on a weary tone.

"Yes, brother? What is it you want of me?"

"I heard those things. They don't appreciate shit for the bruises and beatings you take, risking your own life against the errant fools who'd conspire against their lord. You risked your life and they demand you meet their deman-"

The blacksmith had finally made his way into the room, obviously still under the impression that she'd spent the night at the chapter house. His wounded, bruised, exhausted sister painted a very different picture.

"The devil did you do, coming in looking like the cats dragged you?"

Waving her unaffected hand dismissively, Erilyn gave a deep yawn and winced as it sung through her shoulder with sharp pain. The look of anger and worry crossed her brother's face, but he didn't say anything else. She looked too pathetic for him to desire an argument just now. Instead, he frowned and his brow doubled over with lines.

"Go have a lie down, I'll get you some stew."

Gratefully, Erilyn accepted the offer and was shortly curled in her bed, the chains wrapped tightly over her shoulder in place of the bandages she'd removed, glistening bright silver with the morning light and reminding her more than she'd like of the blade slicing over her skin. Her eyelids were heavy and began to droop closed.
​

 

[Faulkner]

The night had been long, indeed.

A long, sleepless night spent in the empty house Jenra had shared with her younger brother until the events of that night. She had spent much of it in a state of shock, staring at the flickering fireplace, numb and unaware of anything around her--a highly unusual state for her. Ultimately, she had decided sleep was a lost cause.

She was a member of the FateGuard now. She may as well begin training in earnest.

The sky was barely pinking with the first traces of dawn when she made her way to the chapter house; in a way, she was grateful for the empty streets. She knew the people of the city well enough to know what rumours would be spreading about her now, after her brother was exposed as a traitor, bewitched or not. There, alone in the courtyard, she set up the targets. Though she was but a humble librarian, Aloysius had convinced her to learn to defend herself, which was how she came to gain her skill in archery. She was no master marksman, but each arrow found it's point embedded in it's target. She stayed there until the sun was well up, and one of the FateGuard's trainers arrived to find her.

 

[Woodrat]

It was one of those mornings.

Eric trudged along the edges of the empty training courtyards, his mind somewhat numbed with the length of the night. No matter how many times he had done it before, he had never gotten used to the schedule that those of the Fateguard had to maintain. A constant vigil over the night accompanied by the realities of having to earn one's keep during the day. The funeral pyres had been particularly troubling as of late. Corben's voice still echoed in his head. If it had not been proper he might not of held Corben back, would have joined Corben in the tirade against the populous. Few seemed to understand how it drained a person both physically in body and mentally in mind. The citizens looked at them as protectors, and yet were quick to judge those that had fallen, perhaps not physically but mentally in the night.
They deserved proper burials, not pyres like common monsters or rabble. This was the price of vigilance that so few of the recruits seemed to realize from the onset. To be forgotten as a monster and traitor rather than remembered as a protector.

Eric shook his head in an attempt to remove the dull ache in his head and looked up into the early pink dawn light. He was early, perhaps he could sneak a short nap in before the recruits and other trainers filed in.

This notion was cut short by the soft sound of a bow, and the rustle as an arrow made contact with its hay target. For a moment he listened to the sporadic noise from the next courtyard over. After a few shots he silently moved across to the entranceway and looked inside. Someone had set up a few targets and was practicing. Not just someone, Jenra, Jenra Cathair, the older sister to Aloysius, seeking to restore her family's honor in the eyes of the general populous. Eric had seen her countless times at the library, she after all, had worked there while he had read, and studied. He had heard she had supposedly joined the Fateguard, but did not know what talents she brought to the table. Quietly he observed her work. Some arrows were dead on, striking the center of the target, others wobbled, connecting high or low but still on target. Overall, decent with a bow he surmised.

The sun was far higher in the sky when she stopped, the sounds of recruits and other trainers entering the training courtyards. Eric pushed off of the doorframe that he had leaned against and approached Jenra with heavy footsteps, a small smile upon his lips as he spoke.

"Very good Cathair, your brother taught you well. Perhaps you could use a little refinement in your technique but…" Eric shrugged, "is there anything I can assist you with?"

 

[Asmodeus]

It was two hours later when he was called to the drawing room. Corben had never owned a drawing room till now. Having just finished setting up his forge in the courtyard, he looked bizarre in his leather apron and work boots, clomping through the ornamented hall of Elayna's former home.

He found the Bishop Wallstein seated on a canape couch, beside a log fire freshly tended by the servants. He wore his black smock as always, his head bare and only a simple Pilgrim Cross around his neck. He was at ease and smiling fondly at Clara, who leant against the mantelpiece.

A simple sight. But it made Corben bristle. "Clara..." he spoke to his daughter, pausing in the doorway to remove his work gloves. "Come away."

The girl's smile dropped, replaced by guilty obedience. Whatever conversation she had been having with the Bishop was broken off and she moved around the canape and toward her father. He stroked her head as she passed him and slipped away, back to her room.

"A most precocious child," Wallstein said, his gaze following Clara out of sight. He did not rise.

"Eminence," Corben replied by way of greeting. His voice betrayed nothing of his discomfort, at seeing his child so sociable with the High Priest. Circling to the fireplace, he set down his gloves and took up the stoker. It was so he would have something to do with his hands.

"I do not think her the marrying sort."

"No. She would the gods had made her a boy."

"Much like young Lilith." The Bishop circled a finger around his chin - a warding gesture at the mention of the heretic's name. "I remember her when she came for her blessing. So angry at her gender. The womenfolk of Gotheheim think they must renounce their nature to serve the FateGuard."

"We each renounce what we must." Corben stoked the fire, not making eye-contact - not betraying his emotions.

"I hope when Clara comes to take her vows, she will with a clear conscience."

It was this that made him turn. Corben locked eyes with the Bishop. "If she joins..." He made the emphasis clear.

Wallstein smiled again and refolded his robes, crossing one leg over the other. He had a glass of sweet wine that he sipped from, no doubt poured by Amadea. "And why woudn't she? The honour of the Reimar family demands it. And besides..." He paused only slightly, his eyes narrowing. "There are ranks to be filled, dear Marshall."

Corben switched subjects, deliberately. "How fares the king?"

"He has left his bed, at least. But he is still weak. He sits upon the throne in fur cloak and directs the business of court with grunts and sighs. A sickly head of state. But the Lord will prevail in him."

"And the queen?"

"Ripe of belly." Wallstein came forward and, with practiced ruthlesslness, steered the conversation back to where he wanted it. "You can stand assured, Marshall, that my Legionnaires are ready to do their duty. You are down eight men. It would take but two of my warriors to fill that breach. And... of course... they would not suffer the maladies of treachery or compassion that have so cursed the FateGuard of late."

Corben's grip tightened around the stoker. He looked away, through the window, hiding his anger. In the courtyard near his forge the Bishop's carriage waited, guarded by strangely armoured paladins. "It is our humanity that steels us, Eminence."

"And like all luxuries, humanity rests on a bed of necessity." The Bishop was quick of word and thought. He had played politics for longer than Corben had lived. "Measures must be taken for the collective good."

Corben turned to cut him off again. "The boy delights in killing." The words echoed heavy. "Tahan is a butcher. A hollow child. What use have I for men who cannot comprehend what might be lost? Would Tahan have done as Aloysius did - remember himself and yield his own life to stop the cancer?"

"Yet he will follow orders as well as any of your dogs." Wallstein's reply brought equal silence. "Or are you to tell me that all your FateGuard are of perfect will to follow you?" The old man rose from the sofa, draining his glass and placing it on the mantle. "Take it from a man of faith, dear Marshall: there are some in this city who follow... because they fear to do anything else. That is your true humanity. They may speak their noble words, but the greater part of your little army will only serve for as long as they think it is expected of them."

He straightened his robes again, looking up into the eyes of the taller warrior without flinching. "You have your drones; and I have mine. We will use them to their ends."

Firelight danced between them, their malice made manifest. The silence only folded when Wallstein put on a new smile and, turning, sighed theatrically. "Well Marshall, I must depart. The King has ordered a crew go out, tomorrow, and pull down that cross on the hillside. And of course, the search for the traitor Kael continues. There is much business to attend to. I thank you for your hospitality."

He held out his hand, the ring of office glinting, polished for the kiss. "Go with God, my son."

 

[Delnoir]

Derek sat opposite Archmage Endleweiz. Even after entering the Mage's Guild and having any prying ears removed from the room Derek and Endleweiz didn't say more than two words. Perhaps they were both uneasy about the conversation that was about to take place. Finally Derek mustered his courage and looked up to the old man, "Endleweiz...the magic used to convert the assassin's into those creatures. Was it...?" his words caught in his throat. There was even the slightest bit of hope that he clung to that it might all be a coincidence. The old man looked up to the Lieutenant and closed his eyes.

"Yes...Arcanium," the Archmage took a long drink from a nearby cup, "And judging by the look on your face, young Vermilion, I'd say that you know something I do not. Perhaps I would even prefer to not know at all but if you had me dismiss everyone here, then that tell me all I need to know, doesn't it?" Derek nodded slowly. Embers of rage flickered in his eyes. There was absolutely no doubt about it. He had been right. About Arcanium surviving, about him leading the Wounded Hand, and about him infusing any that would listen with the same magic The Monolith had given him.

"Arcanium...is alive and leads the Wounded Hand. Alexander said so last night. Said that--" Derek paused for a moment and looked up at Endleweiz. A brief flicker of hesitation in his mind asked him if he should be talking about the details. The Archmage appeared to read his mind and shake his head.

"You can tell me, lad. Arcanium is just as much my problem as he is the FateGuard's. You have to remember that when he was still Arkham Stillwater that he was a student of this school. A student of mine. Those who know are already concerned that Ganthor had dealings with the Wounded Hand. If they learned that Arcanium, one that was once of the Mage's Guild, is the leader of the Hand then the people's already less than stellar opinion of us would shatter like a dropped pane of glass. Arcanium may as well have the keys to bring Gothenheim's infrastructure to it's knees. However if you do not think it's important I shall not force you," Derek nodded with a quick 'thank you', "So Gothenheim's worst nightmare...the one it doesn't even know of...has returned. I was always afraid this might happen. His magic works in ways the guild could only hope to comprehend. His body on the other hand is something completely out of our grasp. Just pure arcane energies. Energies that were scattered about the area upon his death. It would seem as though that he reformed from the traces in the air, or perhaps someone had to aid him meaning the Wounded Hand is older than we initially believed. But you only came to me for confirmation, didn't you, Derek? So I ask you, what do you plan to do with the knowledge that your parents' murderer lives?" Derek stood up and turned to leave the room, "Will you seek revenge?"

"Wouldn't you want revenge if you learned the one that murdered your loved ones lived?"

"Perhaps, but can you keep it from consuming you?" Derek paused for a moment, not turning back to the Archmage.

"I hate Arcanium with all my being. I will hunt him beyond the walls and to the ends of the earth if I must. But he and the one that gave him that power will die on my blade."

"But will that bring you peace, Der--"

"Yes it will. This isn't some storybook where the protagonist sees that revenge consumes all and decides against it under some twisted concept of justice. Arcanium is a monster who will either convert Gothenheim to the evil the FateGuard safeguards it from or he will destroy it and everyone within. There will be no containing him and he is beyond redemption. He will die and then maybe for once my sister and I can genuinely smile for the first time in a long long time. I did my job fine before I knew Arcanium was alive. All that changes now is that my job and ending Arcanium happen to coincide with one another..." the Archmage didn't say anything for a few moments. He glanced up at the ceiling, his lips moving as if he was sampling the taste of Derek's answer.

"And you're right. This isn't a fairy tale, he is a monster, and your line of work will bring you two into conflict. Same as any other member of the FateGuard today that saw him fourteen years prior. Eric and Corben for example. Yet none of you can pierce his shields. How can you hope to hurt him? How will you conquer his defenses without your sister and her lance? How do you know he doesn't hold a grudge and looks forward to the day he can crush the two of you?"

"I can't say I know he doesn't hold a grudge. My parents defeated him. He was...is...an arrogant bastard with a messiah complex and he'll find their defeating him unforgivable. And you're right that there's a good chance he wants a shot at my sister and I since that's the closest thing he'll get to a rematch. As for his defenses, Gae Bolg, and my sister you're right. We can't win without it and her. So that means I'll have to help her get over the Tempest Garb's curse so she can join us. We have...empty ranks to fill now after all..."

"Indeed. I wish you and your comrades the best of luck, Derek. But until Arcanium shows himself I suggest you do not let yourself get caught up in your thoughts of him. Focus on your tasks as they come. There are quite a few people who seem to think that you're the prime candidate to succeed Corben as Marshal and lead the FateGuard someday. I would very much like to see that. Don't do something that would hurt your chances."

"...Thank you, Endleweiz. You confuse the hell out of me sometimes, but this...is what I really needed to hear," Derek departed the Mage's Guild with the Archmage's blessing and made his way to the Chapter House where he quietly paid his morning respects to his parents and the other fallen heroes of the FateGuard before sitting down in the corner to nap. Eric might need him soon or perhaps even the FateGuard would be required to tend to something.

 

[unanun]

The feeling of bone upon skin was a peculiar one. As Tahan slipped the chest piece on, the carapace shocked his skin. Plaster and glue made from ground bone and ligaments filled in the spaces between the ribs. The black scriptures engraved into the helmet whispered to him, in a harsh, grinding tone. Or they were holding back what the skull was trying to say - he could not tell anymore.

Regardless, he found comfort in actions of rote as he swung the weighted metal stick over and over. Sweat was dripping from his chin when he finished and attendants disassembled the armour, running obsidian shards through the glued together joints until the black pieces sloughed off him like rotting flesh. The other completed suits hung on poles, drying in the sun: somewhat crude copies, their eye sockets black and bottomless even at midday. Their presence was concealed by thick white cotton scarves, thrown over the shoulders and a deep white hood draped over the skull. The armour looked bent in prayer, although their hands hung limply by their sides. In this stance they looked like defeated gladiators. Despite the immense amount of white and gold embroidery draped over them, they couldn't quite contain the strangeness, as how blood imparts a faint sheen even on the thickest of cloths.

As gallant as Leonardo had been the previous night, Tahan made it clear that he had to retreat to Father's house after the extraordinary events of that night. Leonardo had graciously, chivalrously allowed him to depart, and had only expressed trust and concern for him. It was strange, being worried after. It was also strange, the various awakenings he had experienced that night: primal, something that hung between disgust, terror .. and what else? There was no name for it, the vexing feeling in his gut as he watched the half denuded Elayna thrash against his chisel.

He took a deep breath and looked up to the sky. There might have been something fated about it. Her sin - and death - were certain. But why did he feel so .. satisfied?

This is what the righteous must feel like, he thought. This is how it feels to execute God's will. A shadow flashed in the corner of his eye, and he snapped his head to follow it, pinning the rat to the round with a spike.

Yes! He stood over the rat and looked down, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He placed a foot on the tip of the spike and pushed it deep into the ground.

Righteous! His pupils flared, boring into the rat.

--------

Tahan's actions didn't escape Father Gregory's watchful eye. They seldom did, his latest escapades caught through a crack in the morgue walling. Gregory squinted through the seam, his hand scribbling in the notebook - a useful skill, writing without sight, and certainly extremely useful when one is concerned with finest of details.

Child rearing issues, his pen wrote. No role model, the nib scratched over the paper.

Disturbed of mind. Not sound to play Commandar Legionnaire - may have thoughts on own sense of right . His pen was dry, the last few words only scratched on the paper. For a long time, he leaned back in his chair, chewing the nib and staring down at the notebook. With an air of finality, he rose and slapped the book shut. There would be no need to mention this. He pushed his glasses up his nose. His source of curiosity would be removed, he would no longer be able to pore over the holy tomes, and his life would be dull.

Gregory had to correct this little diversion before it rolled downhill. He stepped outside:

"Father! A sinner!"

His smile was only slightly grim.

 

[Cosmic Orion]

Erilyn had helped Saint reach his home after the library battle had reached it's end. Did she take pity on him? Perhaps she thought him a fool for not tearing away the bandages that brought him such agony? Regardless of the truth and her own wounds she got him to the front door before trudging off toward her own home. Leonardo was in no shape to walk home by himself under such intense pain. Tahan had already left him alone to run off back to Father Gregory. Just what would he report to his superiors? Following him was out of question despite the growing suspicions toward that sect of the church. All he managed was to limp into his own room and lock the door before collapsing on the bed.

Dawn found Leonardo bound in fresh bandages at the pyres where the twins had their corpses set alight less than a few days ago. Tears refused to fall from his eyes. None were left. The waters he had pulled Aidan and Nadia took their place in that mournful role. Even at the ceremony where three FateGuard burned not a single droplet of remorse trailed down his cheek. Only profound loss and a new found resolve had welled up in his eyes. While Corben had stood there with a face covered in soot and tears screaming at the crowd, Leonardo had remained solemn and silent. Not a single speck of soot clung to him from head to toe while firelight had danced along his blond hair.

May your deeds never be forgotten, my friends.

Pain brought his normal composure onto it's knees as echoes from the battle against Elayna resounded through his already scarred body. Steam from her attacks in the library had almost left him unconscious. That attack struck him harder than his fellow FateGuard due to the then damp bandages wrapped around his skin. Monk robes soaked through only served to intensify the amount of steam created to the point he vanished within it from sight. Left blinded to his surroundings without a weapon, he could only stagger away from the sounds of battle until Elayna died. Nerves once thought deadened by flames found themselves resurrected for the sole purpose of torment.

Yet this would not keep him bedridden forever or put an end to the task at hand.

Crouched just a foot from the ashes of his former childhood friends, he pulled out two small containers. Each urn had a name inscribed onto it with golden lettering which belonged to an elaborate font. One often reserved for holy scriptures alone. Now they would serve another purpose. Gathering up what he could in his bare hands, Saint scooped up ashes from each pile into the urns. Fingers sifted through what the wind had not seen fit to carry away. Unrelenting tremors of aching pain continued to strain against his steel will without remorse. Lids let out a solid *thunk!* when placed atop the appropriate container moments before Saint stood up with an urn under each arm. Not a single trace of the ashes remained on his hands.

Soon enough a shelf in his room at home held the twins' remains aloft.

Leonardo strode out of his house still wearing the robes bestowed upon him the day he joined the FateGuard. Robes he had worn every night spent defending the city. For all the horrors and bloodshed they witnessed, not a single stain lingered on them. Blades left no lasting cuts in the cloth. No matter what they went through the next day everything returned to an immaculate state. People on the street still stared at him knowing full well who they gawked at. A member of the FateGuard so hideous that all but his eyes and hair were bound beneath bandages. . . yet wearing those robes. Even now they stared as he walked with a purpose in each step until he reached his destination.

"I seek an audience with the Bishop."

But his voice did not just seek something, it demanded it.

 

[Jack Shade]

Hamlet and Argon stood guard outside Malwin's home. In the chaos and confusion of the previous evenings, not a one had seen the poisoner leave his home for any reason. The blind man stayed his vigil over the sick and dying. Not a one had seen the too-lanky figure emerge each evening from the roof, twisting aside slats and bricks with eerie silence and slink off into the night. Before morning, it returned, always laden with some sack or package that it had to slip into the hole it had made and vanish once more within. It was the second day, at dawn, when a wail shook the two guards from their dozing watch. Turning to each other, they nodded once before tearing the door open and stepping inside.

Malwin knelt, or at least, it must have been him. Since his retreat into the home, he'd covered every inch of his skin with bandages. Only his black hair, remnant of the man he was, shone a lustrous crow-feather hue in the early dawn light. He knelt over the bed of his wife, his daughter pressed against his breast. Tears darkened the areas around his useless eyes and their bodies were still. Too still. Both guards held back, unsure of how to break this scene of lamenting sorrow. Malwin did not speak, only cried, horror fueling the agony he forced from his throat like a wounded animal.

Both guards were mute, held frozen as the scene pressed upon their senses. The Poisoner's house was a winding labynth of candles, symbols, and spiderweb designs. Some stained the walls, coarse colors the shade of drying blood emblazoned in words and pictures neither of the men could understand. Powder circles dotted the alien landscape, tomes, jars, and vials were upended and open over every table. On the center of the floor, a blanket dipped suspiciously low, as if concealing an abyss.

Now the Poisoner, a recluse of the last two days, held the bodies of his departed amid what appeared to be some sort of occult ritual.
Argon looked to Hamlet, putting a hand hesitantly on the hilt of his sword. Hamlet nodded, drawing his in a single motion. Malwin paused mid sob, his entire body relaxing and the child slipping from his arms.

"Gentlemen," the Poisoner said softly, his voice rasping, "Entering the home of a Fateguard without announcing yourself is a grave offense." His feet clenched, knees straightening, and he had stood and turned before either of the guards had time to act. Malwin was a stranger now, the linen wrapped around his body seemed almost blinding against the stark coal of his hair. Although he was blind by day, he seemed to follow their movements perfectly, eerily astute.

"Poisoner Malwin," Hamlet said, "Can you explain what has happened here?"

As if realizing the chaos he was surrounded in, the poisoner cocked his head and shrugged. "You would not understand."

"Your wife and child are dead."

"I am equipped enough, I think, to have noticed."

"What happened." It was not a question.

"They perished," the poisoner explained, his voice eerily hollow, "Sickness finally took them in the night. Their souls reside in paradise."

Hamlet swallowed and nodded at Argon, who drew his blade and stepped carefully to the side of the bandaged man. "We will have you bound by law and escorted to the Chapter House. You will explain yourself to Lord Corben."

"Of course," Malwin agreed, holding out his hands, "I had hoped we would be visiting the rest." His lanky wrists were chained and flanked by both guards, he was escorted through the streets of Gothenheim toward the Chapter House.

Murmurs followed in their wake, the wailing of a woman for the disappearance of her little girl keened through the rumor like blades through flesh, but all were left behind as they stopped at the door.

Hamlet knocked smartly, bowing to whomever came to answer.

"My apologies for the interruption, Malwin the Poisoner was found in the midst of sigils and witchcraft. His family has perished. We seek the council of the Fateguard of what to do with him."

Malwin kept silent the whole time, head tilted down, as if observing some small terrestrial creature. They awaited the Fateguard Commander.

They awaited explanation.

 

[Asmodeus]

"It was Reachers Bluff, to the north-east? I'd never taken the logging parties that way before; but they say the timber there resists the acid rain. The church towers need reinforcement." Castanamir shifted the rope to his other shoulder and pulled anew.

Corben was beside him, the other rope around his chest. Together they hauled the cart up the hill towards the Chapterhouse. It was a crisp morning, their breaths misting as they worked. Corben was glad for it. His wife's new acquisition had left as raw a taste in his mouth as the words of Bishop Wallstein. And all this lay in the shadow of last night's tragedies. The marshall wanted to be among his men, at work, in conversation and labour. It steadied him.

"You must be careful out there, Castanamir. The daylight is your only shield, and I would not count on it forever."

"Nor will I, after what I heard. It was the foraging boys who alerted me. They say they heard a howling, as that of a wolf, out by the eastern valley. A lonesome creature that prowled just beyond their sight. They thought it would surely hunt them, but on the scenting it slipped away. They told me there was sadness in its call."

Corben shifted the rope to his other shoulder. The slope was making their burden heavy, the cart creaking behind them. "You think it was Ferrick?"

"With all my heart I hope not. I would rather the man be dead than resigned to such solitude."

They passed through the outer courtyards, exchanging greeting waves with Eric and Jenra, who trained by the archery targets. The sun had risen above the west spires. Castanamir gave a grunt of exertion but kept up the pace. "He could not have been five leagues from that Monolith you spoke of. You know that?"

"Yes." Corben's eyes were downcast. His heart ached. "And if Ferrick has strayed too close to it, his torment will be doubled. As it was for Aloysius."

"Perhaps..." Castanamir turned to grip the rope with both hands, manuevering the cart through the archway into the main courtyard. "...or perhaps he was keeping us away from it. I for sure will never take the logging parties east, knowing he is there. Perhaps Ferrick, or what has become of him, serves us still from afar."

Corben couldn't help a smile. With a last heave he brought the cart into place besides the water font by the yard wall. "You see the best in people. I thank you for that."

Marshall and messenger moved to the back of the cart and got their hands underneath the cargo. They nodded to one another then heaved with all their might. There was a grunt and then the half-conscious Arkavenn went tipping from the cart and into the water font. There was a great splash and then thrashing and spluttering. Castanamir moved the cart away while Corben helped the giant into a kneeling position, his head hung over the side of the trough.

"Time to sober up, my friend."

Arkavenn grumbled something then pitched sideways, back into the water. They had found him outside the Brightspark Tavern, as usual, and as usual he would have to lie in the font for much of the day before his head cleared. It was just one of the many morning rituals the FateGuard conducted.

"Marshall Reimar!" There was a call from across the courtyard. Harrel moved towards them with steady, deliberate step. "Two of the royal guard seek audience."

Corben bundled the ropes and frowned at the old man. "The royal guard?"

"They were enforcing the curfew on Malwin's home. Now they have brought him before you."

"He broke the curfew?"

Harrel shook his head, and in his eyes was that old stoicism - that glint that spoke of things foreboding. "His family perished in the night. They say there was witchcraft practised. Malwin was found with sigils demonic."

The air seemed to grow colder. Any within earshot froze, their hearts sinking as the memory of the Wounded Hand reared itself again.

Not Malwin too.

Corben threw the ropes to Castanamir and met the messenger's gaze. "Alert the others." Then he hurried after Harrel.

It was a short walk to the common room - a walk in which a thousand thoughts swirled through Corben's mind. He felt sick to the stomach. He could not go through this again - another Fateguard champion snared by diabolical powers. But he was resolved he would not lose Malwin as well. If he was possessed they would drive it out. But how could there be any evil in him? How could the Monolith take hold of a blind man? It made no sense. Confusion quickened his steps, and as he spilled into the common room his first fear was that he would see those eyes again - those pearl-white glazed eyes of the corrupted.

But instead, there was only emptiness pervading the room. Malwin sat on a chair in the centre, his hands bound, his head hung low. It was a grieving and defeated poise. He was filfthy-bandaged and dark haired - the wretched mirror to his brother Leonardo. In the corner Derek was rubbing sleep from his eyes and stirring from a bench. And the two soldiers waited, sharing a jug of mead. Corben moved quickly to them. "Why have you brought this man?"

Explanation was whispered - mention of the man's candlelit hovel, daubed with blood hexes and powder sigils. Corben's shoulders sunk with every revelation. Reaching to his belt pouch he drew two coins and pressed one to each of the men's palms. "This will be dealt with. I trust the news will spread no further."

Argon and Hamlet were their names. He remembered them. They had been bribed before, when Arkavenn toppled a home or when Alyss got into fights. They would accept the bribe again. They had families to feed, and there was no steadier source of income than the assurance that you could keep your mouth shut. With thankful smiles to Corben and weary glances to Malwin, the two soldiers departed, and Malwin was left to the audience of the arriving FateGuard.

Corben stood with Derek and looked down at the shackled, bandaged man. "Malwin... what has happened?"

 

[Hydronine]

She was still lost to the books when she had been found- dozens lay at her feet, thrown or dropped without a care- and three more before she heard her name.

There had to be something... Surely she wasn't the first... surely there was something about this-

Her head rose- her face lost in the shadows provided by the hood of the cloak as she was beckoned.

Alyss's lips tugged into a frown- and she quickly stowed all the books back onto the shelves and made a mental note of which ones she had looked over already, and which ones she hadn't. It was a walk of silence- hands tugging at her hood- adjusting it so her face couldn't be see. Soon enough, she had joined with the others, and it was with tense silence that she took in the scene.

He looked a mess- and though she was wary of the situation, she wanted to believe that this man was not another casualty to corruption. No- there just wasn't a way- and yet...

His hair... Never had it looked so dark- no matter which way she had looked at it- it had been a blonde hue- nothing like what she was seeing...

What had he done? What else had occurred? Had the ailments of his family driven him to such extremes?

No... she didn't want to allow herself to think on that- and yet, memories of damp skin and a faint scent of sweat- memories didn't lie. Something about the person who slumped in front of them in a sense of guilt... it wasn't right at all. She knew that body by touch and sight and there was more than a few things off about him- she just couldn't put words to it. Everything just seemed... wrong.

In a hushed voice, a rasping whisper of his name issued from her lips in the form of a question- as if it would answer whether or not this was the same man who she had been ducking around corners with- the same man who's heat and passion had instilled a more humanly disposition within her. The same man who she had watched come into Ulric's abode so many times, just to try another tincture, another medicine, searching for a cure for his wife and daughter.

"I don't understand..." Alyss murmured at last, her voice hitching at the end, colored with confusion.

 

[Jack Shade]

The once golden hair of the Poisoner was stark black, and the only part of him not covered in the dingy bandages. Morning light spied imperfections along those twisted linens, chalk, herb, what might have been blood emblazoning their damning path across his hands and arms. Malwin waited as the Fateguard arrived, nothing their arrivals with imperceptible head nods, the blind man seeming to sense them when they came. Only when Alyss entered did he look up at her, bandaged face tracing the features of the man she knew before he looked back down at his feet. There was nothing else. It took Corben asking him a second time for the Poisoner to draw in a shuddered breath, too shuddered to be natural, before speaking.

"What a sight I must look," He paused, running one hand along the bandages of his arm, smearing coagulated blood along the white, "I apologize for coming to you like this, but I felt it was easiest if my retainers saw the state of my home and preemptively close it off rather than some citizen stumble across it." He laughed, mirthlessly, a hollow sound. "My family fell into deeper illness these last two nights. I sought…other methods to preserve them."

"What methods?" Corben's voice was cold.

"Witchcraft, Alchemy, Herbalism, Prayer," Malwin listed them off, droning, "But nothing seemed to rouse them. They passed from me this morning, despite my efforts to save them." He was quiet. He offered no explanation to the bandages or the change of his hair color. "And I come with news that will trouble more than my grief, I fear."

Shifting in his binds uncomfortably, the Poisoner looked up at Corben, at all of them. "A hole has opened up within my home, sometime last night before my family passed. I sensed a presence from it, a dark and terrible presence, but it passed beneath me and away. I did not dare leave, for the sake of my loved ones, but I felt within it the strong desire to do malice, great malice."

Emotion clogged his words, but they seemed mismatched, distorted by the bandages, "There is a tunnel beneath my home, into the catacombs of Gothenheim. I am not sure to where it leads or what lies in wait, only that there is evil within our city, within Gothenheim, and it walks beneath our feet."

Malwin was quiet for a moment before speaking again, as if it was a great effort for him to continue speaking in grief, "I am guilty only of trying to save my family. Consider that as you weigh your decisions. But the longer you wait, the more may become victim of the danger swelling beneath us. Let me accompany you down there. Let me face my punishment and penance after this threat is handled. My eyes are not so sightless in the dark."

A quiet pause. "Well," and there was almost a derisive air, "Not so sightless as yours."

 

[Delnoir]

Derek's sympathy was with Malwin, but there were bigger issues, "Malwin, I'm sorry for your loss and I thank you for taking measures against a citizen seeing your home in it's current state but unfortunately I can't support the idea of just overlooking your actions if you've used witchcraft. There have been a number of terrible circumstances over the past two nights. We face a cult known as the Wounded Hand who uses magic casually. To harm people. People at the King's celebration two nights ago saw this and their fear is at an all time high. We fell under suspicion once already. The Wounded Hand nearly killed the king, turned Lilith, Sayra, Elanya, and Kael to traitors, and murdered another three. Aiden, Nadia, and Alyosius were murdered," Derek refused to consider Alyosius a traitor. Not knowing that Arcanium could have been involved. His stern tone softened.

"However we have a great deal of fortune on our side this time it would seem. Those not of the FateGuard who know of this have been bribed for their silence. So I say to you rise. Stand and fight against the evils that lurk beneath your house. Stand with us against the Wounded Hand. You have the chance to redeem yourself, Malwin," Derek glanced up at Alyss trying to keep her face hidden. He could see frost but when they locked eyes they just as quickly darted away, "And once we've purged your home, you can aid me in someone who is in desperate need of help if you feel you're up to the task," Derek rested a hand on Malwin's shoulder.

"You are not alone, Malwin. We have all lost people important to us in the last two nights."

 

[Hydronine]

"We need him." Alyss spoke up, giving a glance to Malwin before she continued. "He may have had a hand in this- he could be a great help to us in this." She added, trying to find her words carefully. "This is not magic being used casually, Derek- this is was for a dire situation. A ongoing situation that has deteriorated everything around it until there was nothing but desperation. Nothing was working to aide his family- and I'm not sure if I believe that he had more strength or faith in lasting this long without resorting to these choices." She spoke, taking a breath.

"Every day, there was some new medicine to make, a new concoction- every day, we had to find more ingredients for recipes to try and heal his wife and daughter- and nothing worked. I'm not sure if any one of us would last as long as he did without trying to find a alternative way to end their suffering." She stated, looking Malwin over once more. "It was a constant struggle to find more ways to try and undo what's been done to his family, and pessimism had already taken hold of more than a few healers."

"He can help us- we can't have him locked or hidden away when he can be of use to us in this situation- given the circumstances, we need all the help that we can get- from trusted allies, and regardless of his grave mistake, that does not count against his loyalty." Alyss paused, a crackling sound occurring, before a chip of ice fell from one of her hands, tinkling to the floor.

"We can deal with his faults and troubles later- the evil he speaks of, needs to be our first priority." She finished, and resumed her silence- surveying Malwin with personal guilt. She surely hadn't helped his situation much... and perhaps she had even clouded his judgement at times without understanding it.